


Motions

by Bleuet (le_paquet_fou)



Category: Original Work
Genre: Dialogue-Only, Working through feelings, a small vent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:08:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24692056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/le_paquet_fou/pseuds/Bleuet
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1





	Motions

“What do you want in life?”

“I dunno.”

“No interests, passions?”

“Well, yeah, I do. Hyperfixations, I guess.”

“But what will you do with your life?”

“I dunno.”

“...”

“It’s scary, not knowing. So many people seem to know what they want, and that drives them. But I don’t have that. I just go through the motions because that’s what I’m supposed to do. Get decent grades, go to college, get a job, work, retire, and die. And, idk, just that thought scares me. Shouldn’t I want more? Shouldn’t life be more meaningful than just doing what’s required?”

“Of course.”

“Then why don’t I see that? Why is it so hard to imagine my future? I worry about it constantly, my anxiety over it paralyses me, which makes me more anxious, trapping me in a vicious cycle, yet I choose escapism. Focus on my hyperfixations, focus on the now, let the anxiety grow and grow until I crack and start doing stuff too late. And still, there’s no passion. Nothing. Just, do what society says, maybe have a ton of hobbies, but as for what I want to do? It’s all blank.”

“Is there anything constant that you at least partially like?”

“Nothing that’s lasted more than a couple years. I mean, history is cool, still like learning it, but my days of self-research are over. And I guess writing. I always like making up stories. Part of escapism, heh. And I guess it lets me sort through feelings and struggles. Maybe a few people will relate if I post stuff online. But I don’t even edit my work. Not well, or often. Fuck if I know anything about real writing.”

“Writing is an art, right? There’s no right way of doing it.”

“Gotta know the rules before you break them. And I guess, yeah, I know them and just choose not to use them. I never have a full plot,  _ ever _ . It’s all a mess. And who knows, I’ve been kinda obsessed for a year or two now. Watch as all that goes down the drain. I’ll be back to having nothing. Back to just doing the motions, flinging between hyperfixations that consume my every waking, and sometimes even sleeping, thought. I dunno. Life is just scary, and feels kinda empty, y’know?”

“Maybe you’re depressed?”

“Maybe. I really shouldn’t discount that anymore, huh? Not just anxiety anymore. Can’t be. I don’t think anxiety makes life seem so dull.”

“Worth a talk with a therapist.”

“Yeah. Won’t magically give life meaning besides ‘be alive and do what everyone else does’ though.”

“No, but it’ll be good to at least find the problem and recognise it.”

“Yeah…”

“It’ll get better. I promise.”

“Thank you.”


End file.
